While he wasn't sure what it would look like, he did expect it to be something different. Her people are so unlike his; Sweeney couldn't imagine it would be familiar. So, he perks up at the drum.

That is not so divergent from what his people perform, at least, in principle. What is not the same is the attire. His eyes flicker wider for a moment, mostly due to her bare feet. Perhaps it is because she is meant to be a virgin when the dance is performed, he tells himself. Sweeney wonders if the floor is uncomfortable for them.

He notices other details, too; the most striking being the wreath of flowers. Though he had not dwelled on the choice at the time, Sweeney hadn't been frivolous about it either, and it's easy to recognize. His gaze remains focused as she approaches, unblinking.

With a swallow, he bows his head in answer to her curtesy. His voice is clear for the others assembled to hear.

"Granted, my Lady."

Then it drops to something more intimate. Not private, of course, but something warm that holds the seed of tenderness.

"My Wife."